Wingardium
by 87e54769
Summary: In which the workers at MJN Air crash into a Scottish hill, and they don't see ancient ruins and a sign post, but the Hogwarts castle.


"So, finally going to Reykjavik as an actual destination, are we?" Douglas commented nonchalantly as he took a sip of his coffee, peering at the window screen where the black clouds became a binger of the oncoming thunderstorm.

"Oh, come on, it's not as if we have diverted there that many times!" Martin chuckled, going along with the joke, and admitting that they had, indeed, made quite a bunch of unexpected visits to the Icelandic capital.

"Of course not, Martin. Or_, of course not_, compared with the number of times we've taken off; now…"

"…if we're talking about transatlantic flights with any American destination… Yes, I rather think we ha-" the Captain stopped mid-word rather ridiculously, as the sky rumbled with the force of opposite charges colliding around them. "—ve. You know, I don't think ATC gave us a storm warning before take-off."

"They didn't." Douglas confirmed, hand hovering over the radio button. "Maybe we should talk to Warsaw's Tower; they proved quite useful last time!" _Was he never going to let go of that flight?_ Martin sighed internally, as the flight deck door clicked open and Arthur's tousled hair popped through the crack.

"Hey, chaps! That thunder was _brilliant_ wasn't it Skip?" he chattered excitedly, forcing his way into 'the pointy end.' "It must've sounded great from here. Anyway, Mum was wondering if you could try not to fly through—"

He didn't get to finish his question, as white light filled the deck before everything tumbled sideways and Arthur's cup of coffee hit the… was it the floor, or the ceiling? Carolyn somehow managed to crawl inside with them, her screams torn between anger, horror and desperation, while she tried to get hold of her son. Martin had long passed out and now was rolling between the wall and the foot of his seat, so fast that his head became an orange blur. Douglas was thrown rather haphazardly across the control columns, trying to regain control of GERTI, and failing miserably. The confusion lasted about two minutes before the aircraft hit the highlands with a metallic, resounding _clang__!_ and the engines caught on fire.

* * *

><p>Carolyn woke up with a start about half an hour after the crash had taken place, noticing first the ripped First Officer seat and broken glass scattered around them, then the bruised hand –attached to the even more bludgeoned body of one Arthur Shappey— that held loosely to her lapel, the dripping brow of a very cap-doffed Captain a blinking, middle-aged pilot whose forearm was sticking out like a pogo stick in Alaska.<p>

"Douglas, would you _please _explain what on earth _that_ was? And please, try to find out if Martin is al

ive." She tried to ask him, as kindly as possible as she could when she had no idea what had just happened, except that her First Officer's wit wouldn't be able to get them out of this one. And Arthur was breathing raggedly beside her. "Should I mention, not in that order?"

"Wasn't going to do it; you have _so_ little faith in me, Carolyn." He said, voice hoarse from the strain, edging away towards his colleague, who was looking not only bloody, but quite dazed as Douglas checked him over and prodded the cut above his eyebrow. "Just a tiny bit of blood, he'll be as cheerful as always when he wakes up. The Clot?"

"As stupid as the boy may be sometimes –he is, after all, Gordon's as well—, he's my son, thank you. And he's… asleep, actually." She was almost surprised at the state of the steward on her lap. "Where have we landed, by the way? If you can call that a landing." She craned her neck to have a look through the hole that used to be their control panel.

"A perfectly preserved medieval castle, apparently." Douglas informed, baffled, as he stared at the immense structure above the hills they were on.

Said castle was a bulk in the otherwise gently laid skyline, made of some kind of sandy-colored stone and slate roofs. It rose on a cliff, standing at least 140 feet above the ground; birds –_Owls? Here in Northern Scotland?_ The First Officer thought, scratching his graying hair absent-mindedly. — flew in and out of one of the lowest of four towers, and scattered children were sitting around a dark lake. Carolyn managed to disentangle herself from the Arthur-y tentacles and soon joined him by the window, and gasped at the view.

"Well, this is ridiculous! This is not on our navigator!" She breathed out, mouth slightly agape even as she finished speaking.

"It's a camping place, I suppose. Maybe an UNESCO monument?" Douglas wondered doubtfully, pressing his palm to his arm as not to hurt the dislocated—"Carolyn… I had a broken cubit, when you saw me?" he uttered, poking the skin of his inner elbow.

"Yes, you did. Isn't it hurting you, thoug—?" he stared in disbelief at his employee's left arm. "How did you do that? No, seriously, not even _you_ can fix a dislocated elbow and a broken bone by sheer will."

"...Can't I?"


End file.
